Drukker frowned, and his little eyes moved swiftly from Vance to Markham.
“I heard some one scream—a woman—in this room,” he iterated stubbornly. “About half past eleven.” Then he sank into a chair and gazed moodily at the floor.
This perplexing verbal intercourse between mother and son had held us all spellbound. Though Vance had stood before an old eighteenth-century print near the door, regarding it with apparent absorption, I knew that no word or inflection had escaped him. Now he swung about and, giving Markham a signal not to interfere, approached Mrs. Drukker.
“We’re very sorry, madam, that we’ve had to trouble you. Forgive us, if you can.”
He bowed and turned to Miss Dillard.
“Do you care to pilot us back? Or shall we find our own way down?”
“I’ll come with you,” the girl said; and going to Mrs. Drukker she put her arm about her. “I’m so sorry, Lady Mae.”
As we were passing out into the hall Vance, as if on second thought, paused and looked back at Drukker.
“You’d better come with us, sir,” he said, in a casual yet urgent tone. “You knew Mr. Robin, and you may be able to suggest something——”
“Don’t go with them, son!” cried Mrs. Drukker. She was sitting upright now, her face contorted with anguish and fear. “Don’t go! They’re the enemy. They want to hurt you. . . .”